


The Worst Wizard

by bluevalentine69



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Wizarding School, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Arthur's a Muggle, Best Friends, Daemons, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Familiars, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Inspired by Harry Potter, M/M, Merlin (TV) - Freeform, Merlin's a Wizard, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Mythology References, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, legendary creatures, the worst witch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevalentine69/pseuds/bluevalentine69
Summary: Merlin is the worst wizard in wizarding school: his spells are accident prone and he is generally a walking disaster. When the time comes for his class to summon their familiars for the first time, many of the students summon powerful magical creatures. However, upon Merlin's turn, he summons a very unamused, regular human as a familiar: Arthur.Based on this prompt: https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=557070#t557070.Now with original artwork!





	1. Chapter 1

Merlin has been at The Avalon Academy of Alchemy, Britain’s most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry, since he was 11. He is, by far, the worst wizard in school. Although he comes from one of the oldest, most respected wizarding families in England, most people think he must be a squib (a magical person who can’t use their powers). He just can’t get the hang of spells and incanting and thought magic, no matter how hard he practices. And this year is a big year for him. He’s 13 now. He’s come of age to summon his Familiar.

Familiars (sometimes called daemons), are spirits - or souls - manifested as animals with specific qualities, extensions of your very soul and mind, that act as your companions, protectors, guardians and guides. The type of Familiar you attract says a lot about your power as a wizard, your potential. Binding the will of another creature to your own is tricky magic. And Merlin has a lot to live up to; his family have all attracted Familiars with prestigious, legendary status. His mother’s Familiar is a griffin. His big sister, Morgana, summoned an Amazonian _panther_ rather than a regular household cat. His older brother Mordred partnered a dire wolf. And his father’s Familiar - to the magical community’s never-ending awe - is a dragon, probably thanks to their Dragonlord ancestry. Merlin’s not convinced he’ll be able to summon more than a mouse. Or a cricket, maybe, like Pinocchio and Jiminy.

He stands nervously at the front of the Academy’s Medieval Hall of Ceremony with the other third years, shivering in his dark red robes and trying desperately to stop his wizard’s hat from going all wonky. He can’t seem to convince it to stay upright on his head. It’s the first day of Michaelmas term, the 13th September, a new school year. Merlin spots the first years in their standard black robes, yet to be sorted into their houses, which all have their own coloured robes. The Sorting happens at the Yuletide Festival in second year, once a young witch or wizard’s natural gifts have begun to manifest themselves. Each house is associated with a natural element, and a human element.

Philosophy & Prophecy (magical theory and divination) is the most academic house, rooted in the principle that magic can be studied, with knowledge as the foundation for harnessing the supernatural energies in the universe. It’s associated with the Air and Mind, the intellectual element, and they wear Purple. They excel at Divine Debate, Chronicles of Conjuration, Theories of Time, Supernatural Semantics, Energy Ethics, Histories and Horoscopes, and Scrying.

Alchemy & Astrology (magical sciences) is the most practical house, focused on the idea that magical theory must be _used_ to be understood and improved and wielded. It’s associated with Earth and Body, the physical element, and they wear Green. They excel at Potions, Physics, Herbology, Transfiguration, Numerology and Astronomy.

Mythology & Mysticism (magical lore and belief) is the most spiritual, powerful house, believing that the power of magic and the universe is innate and within all humans; not something external to the body to be controlled and studied. It’s associated with Fire and Soul, the spiritual element, and they wear Red. They excel at Lessons of Legend and Lore, Cultural Classes, Elemental Magic, Natural Magic, Animal Magic, Mind Magic, Manifestation, Invocation, Levitation, Kinesis, and Theurgy.

Spellcasting & Symbolism (magical technique and craft) is the most creative house, using the gifts of magic to create wonderful things, and to imbue magic artistically within visual representations, in literature and art. It’s associated with Water and Heart, the emotional element, and they wear Blue. They excel at Wandwork, Magidiction (magical languages), Enchantment, Necromancy, Conjuring, Illusions, Incantation, Mythography and Magic Murals, Ancient Runes, Phantasmagoria, and Aesthetics.

Merlin is in Mythology & Mysticism, much to the surprise of - well - _all_ living and dead people. It was definitely a mistake; Merlin can’t master the most basic principles of magic, let alone wield them with his will alone. He thinks he was probably just put in the same house as the rest of his family, because otherwise there’d really be no place for him at the Academy. He flattens his hair again anxiously, determined not to mess up the summoning of his Familiar at least. He mouths the summoning incantation under his breath, fingers crossed, praying to the Triple Goddess and the Horned God and anyone else who’ll listen.

“Welcome, everyone,” Professor Kilgarrah says, entering the hall in a swish of emerald robes and smiling as all his pupils hurriedly stand to greet the headmaster of their school. His black-gold Familiar - a salamander called Solomon - is curled around his neck. He stops when he gets to the front stage, where the third years - including Merlin - are waiting. He smiles at their pale faces, and turns with his arms spread wide to address the room. “Welcome to our new Michaelmas term! For our returning pupils, may this be another excellent, enriching year for you all. And to our first years, congratulations! This is the start of the most wonderful adventure for you. Embrace every opportunity to learn and be guided towards your greatness and your gifts.” There’s a smattering of polite applause, and Kilgarrah bows his head in acknowledgement, dropping his arms and holding up a hand for silence. “As everyone will know, it is wizarding law that mages must summon their Familiars between their thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays. It is a school tradition for our third years to complete this summoning ritual publicly on the first day of each new academic school year, for us to witness and celebrate their unions before our Returning Feast. This sacred rite of passage is an important milestone in the lives of young witches and wizards, and I am sure we will all enjoy watching this year’s Familiarising Ceremony.” He looks at the nervous third years and moves to stand beside a raised marble dais, which holds a large gold cauldron bubbling with silvery liquid. He nods his head at his deputy, Professor Peverell. “Please begin.”

Merlin watches as “Augustus, Cecil”, a smart-looking, serious-looking boy in purple robes, is called to stand on the dais. Kilgarrah uses his thumb to smear the blood of a sacrificial lamb across his forehead, for purity of intent. He then pricks Cecil’s forefinger with a needle and allows a drop of his blood to fall into the cauldron, to add to the spell the essence of himself. You could hear a pin drop, the hall is so quiet. Rows and rows of students on wooden pews are watching with bated breath, and the first years in particular are looking part-wondrous, part-terrified. The process is ingrained in Merlin’s brain, and he mentally checks off each step of Cecil’s summoning ritual, reminding himself of his own.

First, Cecil is asked to state his soul element. Most people choose the same element as their house, unless they want to balance their gifts with a Familiar with different strengths.

“I associate with air,” Cecil says calmly, voice carrying across the room. “Air is the element of perception, knowledge and thinking. I invoke these qualities within my Familiar.”

Then he is asked to produce his interpretation of the essence of that element, and add it to the cauldron. Cecil produces the black feather of a crow and holds it above the simmering liquid.

“Crows are creatures of the air, regarded as the spirit animals of magic, mystery, intelligence and destiny, and keepers of Sacred Law and divination. I invoke these qualities within my Familiar.”

Finally, he is asked to recite the personalised summoning incantation that he has prepared.

 **“Ego invoco avos. Mitte avem de prophetiae. Iuncta, videbimus. Ecce! Ego me pignus accipere.”**  
_I call upon our ancestry._ _Send me a bird of prophecy._ _Together we will See._ _Behold! I take my pledge._

He proceeds to drop the feather into the cauldron, whose liquid turns a violent, dark, frothy purple, swirling with iridescent blues. The school professors nod, impressed. Cecil stands back and waits. Within minutes, there’s a tear in the air and a large bird swoops through; a glossy black raven, the Shamanic bird of wisdom. It’s a highly respected animal Familiar. Cecil grins broadly, holding out his arm for the bird, and the raven swoops to sit on his shoulder, beady eyes peering around the room.

“Excellent Cecil, thank you,” Kilgarrah smiles. “What a tremendous start!”

Next is “Averley, Ebony.” Merlin watches with nausea as Ebony gets a Caladrius - a snow-white bird of Roman mythology that heals the sick - and then with an increasingly sinking heart as pupil after pupil manages to summon a Familiar without a problem: badger, owl, Manx cat, fox, swan, bat - all with their merits; determination, wisdom, loyalty, cunning, beauty, transformation. Merlin fidgets and tries to remember all his practicing. His big brother and sister are giving him a big thumbs up from a pew near the front, and Merlin tries to smile back. One particularly optimistic boy invokes fire as his element and incants _draco forti veni ad me (_ dragon force come to me), and finds himself with an incredibly cute orange lizard, much to the amusement of their audience, who catcall and cheer. Merlin jolts as he hears his name called.

“Emrys, Merlin.” There’s a smattering of laughter across the hall as Merlin stumbles onto the dais, reaching out for the cauldron to steady himself. His hat falls into the silver liquid and the laughter increases.

“Whoops,” he whispers, wincing as he looks up at Professor Kilgarrah. The wizened headmaster merely dips his thumb in blood and wipes it across Merlin’s head, before pricking his finger and allowing Merlin’s blood to follow his hat.

“What is your soul element?” Kilgarrah intones. Merlin compulsively smoothes down his hair again.

“Um,” he takes a deep breath. “I’ve chosen earth. For its stability, solidity, dependability and permanence.” It had been his mum’s idea. _Your head’s in the clouds Merlin, love, you need a Familiar that grounds you, helps you to focus your magic._

“And what essence of that element do you wish to invoke?”

Merlin holds up a small bouquet of plants - leaves, flowers.

“Oak, for its strength, honour, and nobility. It grows slowly from the earth, but surely at its own rate.” Merlin’s a slow learner; he figures he needs a Familiar who goes at the same pace. “Chrysanthemum for loyalty, endurance and cherished friendship. Gladiolus for sincerity, strength of character and honour, and lisanthus for an everlasting bond.”

“Very good. Please make your incantation.” Merlin looks down at his hand, where he’s written the words in ink. It’s all smudged because his palms are sweaty, but he squints, thinking he can make out the words from what he already remembers.

 **“Deorum. Animae meae voca me mate. Alterum dimidium me. Ipse fatum meum mea, et ego eum. Natus est in me, et ego in eo. Tenetur in unum ad infinitum. Ego dabo vobis omnia mea. Ecce! Ego me pignus accipere.”  
**_Gods. Call my soul mate._ _The other half of me. He is my fate, and I will bring him forth. Born in me, and I in him. Bound together for infinity._ _All that is mine I give to him._ _Behold! I take my my pledge._

“Sounds like marriage vows,” someone mutters as Merlin finishes uttering his painstakingly prepared words, and drops his small bouquet into the cauldron, alarmed at the resulting hissing, spitting, bloody red liquid in the cauldron, and closing his eyes in hope that this spell actually works. He’s been excited about meeting his Familiar since he was a small toddler, riding his mother’s griffin around their back garden. He crosses his fingers beneath his robes, hoping for something he can cuddle; a tabby cat, maybe? Something that likes him and makes him feel safe, anyway. _Please bring me a kind Familiar_ he prays silently. He hears an almighty crack and a room-wide gasp of surprise and carefully peeks open an eye. Sitting in an awkward heap in front of him, having just crash-landed, apparently, is a boy. A human boy, like him. A human boy with a muddy, annoyed face, and messy blonde hair.

Kilgarrah looks down at him, and he looks up at Kilgarrah.

“I was playing rugby,” he says curiously, with an authoritative tone to his voice. “Have I hit my head? Am I hallucinating? Or am I dead?” He looks around the room with interest, wondering if this is what the afterlife looks like.

“Merlin’s summoned himself a _boyfriend!_ ” someone from the audience calls, and Merlin hears a squawk as Morgana hits the culprit around the head.

“Say that again and I’ll bite you,” she hisses murderously. The blonde boy looks up at Merlin.

“Merlin? That wizard chap? Say, is that blood on your head? Odd sort of place this.” He clambers to his feet and stands up, brushing down his trousers and peering behind Merlin at all the staring animals. “Is this some kind of zoo?” He looks at the fox warily. “It’s quite dangerous to try and domesticate wild animals, you know.” Merlin looks at Kilgarrah in despair.

“Highly unusual,” he’s muttering, “totally unprecedented, but there is the old legend, the once and future … but surely no, not _Merlin_?”

“Would somebody care to explain to me what on earth is happening?” the boy asks again, frustrated now. “You’re all staring at me like complete idiots.” He waves a hand in front of Merlin’s dumbstruck face. “Can you talk?” he asks slowly. Merlin nods at him blankly.

“Merlin,” Kilgarrah intervenes calmly, “please show your visitor into my study and wait for me there. I’ll finish conducting the Familiarising Ceremony and join you afterwards.” Merlin nods, cheeks flaming red, and shuffles off the dais, trying to ignore the whispering and giggling, and definitely trying to avoid Morgana or Mordred’s eyes. His parents are going to be so disappointed with him … again. He trudges towards one of the side doors concealed behind a tapestry, motioning for the boy to follow him.

When he finally gets outside the hall he slips down the wall onto the floor, putting his head in his hands. The boy looks down at him.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Merlin nods. “It’s just … you look like you might be having a panic attack?” Merlin suddenly realises he can’t really breathe and closes his eyes, trying to force air into his lungs. When he’s stopped shaking he opens his eyes to find the blonde boy crouched in front of him, two very blue eyes looking at him closely.

“Sorry,” Merlin croaks. “I’m fine now.” Blonde boy looks at him dubiously.

“So … you’re called Merlin?” Merlin blinks at him. “Bit of a stupid name, isn’t it?” Merlin shrugs. He was named for his famous ancestor. “I’m Arthur,” the boy introduces himself. “I suppose I _am_ I hallucinating then?” he decides, peering down the damp corridor. Getting no response, he looks down at Merlin’s dumbfounded expression, and raises an eyebrow. “You seem to be verbally challenged, and normally that wouldn’t be a problem for me, but could you try to be less of a moron for just one minute and tell me where on earth I am?”

“Avalon,” Merlin whispers. Arthur looks at him blankly.

“Where?”

“The Avalon Academy of Alchemy,” Merlin stutters out. “It’s a wizarding school. The best actually.” He looks at the floor. “I really don’t belong here,” he mumbles sadly.

“Well that makes two of us then,” Arthur says, sitting on the floor next to him, unperturbed. “I must be dreaming,” he says reasonably. “Looks a bit like Eton, I guess. Dingier. You wouldn’t get flaming torches on the walls in the corridors there. Health and safety.” Merlin’s got no idea what he’s saying. What does register is that Arthur doesn’t believe any of this is real. Maybe that’s good. Maybe Kilgarrah can wipe his memory and send him back to his nice, Merlin-free life.

“Come on,” Merlin says miserably, standing up, “Professor Kilgarrah wants us to wait in his study,” he looks down at Arthur. “He’s the headmaster here,” he explains. Arthur nods affably.

“Mine’s called Drummage. Awful chap. Lead on then, lead on!” he commands, cheerfully walking through what he imagines to be his imagination. The paintings on the wall are all whispering, portraits and animals moving between frames to follow Merlin and his human Familiar down the hall. “Fascinating,” Arthur says, “This is just like Harry Potter!” Merlin closes his eyes.

They settle themselves in Kilgarrah’s cosy study, high in one of the castle towers. Arthur pokes around all the astronomy instruments with enthusiasm, helping himself to the bowl of boiled red and yellow rhubarb custard sweets as he explores. Merlin has collapsed into an armchair with his hand over his face. He’s getting a migraine.

“Well, well,” he finally hears, sitting to attention as his headmaster comes into the room. “We have ourselves a _very_ unusual situation. Very unusual indeed. Please do take a seat Arthur,” he gestures, and Arthur sits in the armchair beside Merlin, offering him a sweet. “You’re Arthur Pendragon?” Kilgarrah asks. Arthur looks surprised that he knows his name, but nods and shrugs. “I used a scrying mirror,” Kilgarrah explains. “You are the son of Uther and Ygraine, who are both doctors, and older brother to Elena. You attend the prestigious Eton College, in London?” Arthur nods again, munching away. Kilgarrah tilts his head to the side, bemused by Arthur’s lack of concern.

“He thinks he’s dreaming from ‘Rugby’, whatever that means,” Merlin explains.

“Ah,” Kilgarrah nods wisely. “Arthur, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, dear boy, but this is in fact, all very much real. Our young Merlin here performed a spell to summon his Familiar, and it seems to have summoned _you_. You are now, by Sacred Law, a member of our academy, and soul-bonded to Merlin.” Arthur looks between the two of them like they’re mad.

“Jolly good,” he says, surreptitiously pinching his arm. Kilgarrah raises a finger and lights the fire in the grate. He then proceeds to close the curtains, and to levitate a large gold mirror through the air, which he settles against the wall nearest Arthur. _Ostende,_ he mutters, and the mirror shows Arthur a field of boys running around in the mud, an old building behind them.

“That’s Eton!” Arthur says delightedly, jumping up to have a look. He points at the boys excitedly. “That’s Leon! And Percy! And Lance!” His brow furrows as he turns to look at Kilgarrah. “I hit my head in a scrum. Why haven’t they stopped the game? Where am I? Is this like, a Near Death Experience, or something? If I walk through the mirror, will I go back to my life? I’m not really ready for the Afterlife. It seems great though,” he adds, raised to be polite, and not wanting to offend the old man in case he’s God or something. Merlin really admires his imagination. And optimism. 

“They’re playing the game without disruption because they don’t know you’re missing,” Kilgarrah explains. “When you were summoned here, the universe had to smooth over the ripple in reality that your sudden disappearance caused. I imagine that your parents and sister will think that you’re at some unnamed, albeit prestigious boarding school, although they will be vague about the details. Your friends too, will think that you began to attend a different school this term. No-one will remember you being at Eton.”

“What?” Arthur says, face starting to turn red. “I don’t … I don’t understand?” He sounds uncertain for the first time.

“As I was explaining,” Kilgarrah says, “Merlin summoned his Familiar. And it seems that his Familiar is you.”

“What’s a Familiar?” Arthur asks. Kilgarrah looks at Merlin, staring at his knees.

“Familiars are spirits which usually choose to take the form of an animal, bonding themselves to young witches or wizards to act as their companions and protectors. Together a Familiar and a magician can be very powerful,” Kilgarrah smiles. “The bond you form allows you to sense each other’s very feelings, thoughts, intentions - you will be able to communicate with each other without words as your bond grows. It’s a very special thing.” Arthur stares at Kilgarrah incredulously, and then turns accusing eyes on Merlin.

“Are you saying he summoned me … as his _pet_!?” he asks horrified, glaring at Merlin. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m really, really, _really_ sorry,” Merlin says again, nervously pulling the loose threads at the cuff of his woollen jumper and unravelling half his sleeve in the process. “I just wanted a cat.”

“A cat!” Arthur explodes. “How am I in _any way_ like a cat!?” Merlin sniffs, wiping away a tear.

“You’re not,” he agrees. He looks at Kilgarrah plaintively. “It’s my mistake,” he mumbles quietly, “can’t he just go home? I don’t mind not being Bonded.” Kilgarrah shakes his head.

“I fear it may be more complicated than that,” he says gravely, forehead furrowed. “I think your incantation was rather specific, Merlin. _Animae meae voca me mate_ \- call my soul mate. I think Arthur is more than just your Familiar - he and you are two sides of the same coin. One soul, reunited. You bound yourself to him for eternity. It’s highly advanced magic, almost unheard of; it’s really very impressive. I think you and young Arthur here may share a great destiny.”

“You conjured me as a _soul mate!?”_ Arthur shouts at Merlin. “I’m thirteen! You’re all crazy! I want to go home, right now!” He stands up, red faced, and Kilgarrah puts out an arm to pacify him.

“Soul mates take many forms, Arthur, it’s not always a romantic pairing.”

“Oh good, I feel much better now about being _kidnapped_ ,” Arthur snaps. “Is this like _Planet of the Apes_? Are you going to keep me in a cage and feed me bananas?”

“Do you like bananas?” Merlin asks brightening, reaching for his wand. “We don’t have them in our England, but I think I can summon one for you?” He scrunches up his face and mutters something under his breath, swirling his wand dangerously towards the table. There’s a sudden flash, and Arthur looks down at a perfectly formed pineapple. Merlin grins at him, delighted. “My spells don’t often work,” he admits, beaming proudly as he hands Arthur the spiky fruit. Arthur looks at Kilgarrah mutinously, who’s smiling under his beard.

“There is _no_ way we share a soul,” he says seriously, and Kilgarrah out and out laughs, relaxing quite considerably.

“Well now. I’ve had Merlin’s room modified - enlarged, actually - to squeeze in a second bed. Most Familiars sleep in baskets or nests or on perches, but this is an exceptional circumstance. You’ll attend classes with Merlin, Arthur. If Merlin’s incantation reached you, you must have magic in your bloodline, so I’m sure that with the right tutelage we’ll be able to bring your gifts out of you, such as they may be. Merlin can help you learn!” he beams. Arthur looks at the pineapple pointedly. “Familiars are generally never more than a few metres apart; it hurts to separate the soul. You’ll have to divide up your holidays between each other’s families. It’s certainly going to be a challenge, but if you work together, I am certain you will make it work.” Arthur stares at Kilgarrah.

“What do you mean, we can’t be more than ‘a few metres’ apart?” He asks slowly. “For how long? Is this like - a project for the term?”

“No, Arthur,” Kilgarrah shakes his head. “You and Merlin are bound together forever.”

“Are you _joking_?” Arthur demands. “A life with _this_ idiot!? What about Oxford? And getting married? And having children? And taking over my dad’s medical practice?” 

“You have a different future now,” Kilgarrah says kindly. “It is not one you have envisaged, but I’m sure it will be just as - if not more - rewarding.” Arthur seems lost for words, staring at the old headmaster mutely. “Merlin,” Kilgarrah says gently, “I’m sure this has all come as rather a shock for Arthur. And you too, of course. I’ll inform your parents of the situation and have supper sent to your room tonight, so that you can avoid the interest of your classmates in the dining hall.”

“Thank you, sir,” Merlin mumbles, bowing his head and stumbling to his feet, looking at Arthur nervously. “Would you like to see my room?” he offers cautiously. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Not remotely,” he says.

“Oh,” Merlin stammers, looking down at his feet. “It’s nice. Um. It has a view of the lake? And, um. My mum sent me back to school with a boysenberry cake. It’s my favourite. You can share it with me?” Something like pity flashes in Arthur’s eyes as he takes in Merlin’s defeated posture and sad face, and he relents, softening slightly.

“What’s a boysenberry?” he asks gruffly. Merlin’s face crumples with confusion.

“It’s a mix between a raspberry, blackberry, dewberry and loganberry?”

“A berry with an identity crisis?” Arthur jokes, and Merlin’s smile fades a little as Arthur walks towards him. He suddenly turns back to Kilgarrah. “I presume I can call my parents on Saturdays, like at Eton?” he says imperiously. Kilgarrah considers him for a moment.

“We don’t have telephones here. But I’ll find a way for you to speak to them, don’t worry.” He winks at Arthur and Arthur nods in thanks and follows Merlin out.

 

They don’t talk as they walk along the different stone passageways and corridors, Arthur taking in the ancient statues, medieval tapestries, old paintings, suits of armour. He’s not sure why, but the building feels very familiar to him; almost like it’s been his home before. He has a strong sense of deja vu, making his way up the spiral staircases, catching glimpses of the view from the windows; mountains and forests and a violet sky full of dark winged creatures, too big to be birds, swarming through the twilight.

When they get to Merlin’s room, there’s something of a welcoming committee.

“Way to go, brother!” a boy that looks like Merlin, but taller and less awkward smiles, lounging on one of the beds. “Breaking every school tradition, as _well_ as everything you touch! It’s a gift!” 

“Merlin!” a tall girl with long, dark hair gasps, hugging him to her chest, “Are you okay? You haven’t been expelled?” Merlin pulls away from her crossly.

“You can’t be expelled for being _rubbish_ , Gana,” he grumbles, “it’s not like I didn’t spend hours and hours preparing and practicing.” He glances at Arthur with something like pride. “Kilgarrah said summoning a human Familiar is very advanced magic.” Morgana looks taken aback, staring at Arthur closely. “Stop looking at him like he’s an animal!” Merlin snaps defensively. “He’s called Arthur. He’s a Non-Magic Human that maybe _does_ actually have magic.”

Arthur’s looking warily at the dire wolf and the panther dozing on the floor, both blinking at Merlin wearily, as though accustomed to his unfortunate antics.

“I’m one of them, am I?” he asks, pointing to the animals. Merlin makes an apologetic face. “You are _ridiculous_ ,” he sighs, flopping on to the free bed.

“This is my older brother, Mordred,” Merlin says. “He’s fifteen. And this is my older sister Morgana, who’s seventeen. I’m the youngest. These are their familiars. Isis -” Merlin points to the wolf, “and Aitana,” the panther. “They’re very noble creatures.” Aitana slinks over to Merlin and nudges his hand with her head, comforting him.

“I’m sure Arthur is a noble _creature_ too,” Mordred grins.

“Shut up!” Merlin rounds on him. “He’s mine, and I won’t have you making fun of him! Arthur’s very tired and Kilgarrah’s sending up supper for us. You should go away.” Mordred holds up his hands.

“Alright, don’t get your bloomers in a twist,” he says mildly, ruffling Merlin’s hair. “You know Familiars become part of the family they’re bonded into. Arthur’s our kin now.” Mordred stands up and extends a hand to Arthur. “Welcome to the House of Emrys,” he says, and Arthur eyes him dubiously, shaking his palm. Morgana goes one step further, giving him a hug.

“ _Help him_ ,” she whispers pleadingly into his hair, so quietly he almost thinks he imagined it, but then she stands back briskly, pulling Merlin towards her and kissing his head. “I’m very proud of you,” she says, taking his face in her hands and looking into his eyes. “Don’t forget your family believes in you Merls, whatever your horrid classmates have to say about this. Okay?” Merlin nods at her bleakly.

They leave the room and Merlin is left alone with Arthur. His trunk has already been brought up and placed at the end of his four poster bed, hung with dark red velvet curtains, covered with stars that sparkle like the night sky. He opens it and takes out his tuck box, extracting a rather lumpy looking cake. He cuts a slice with his wand and hands it to Arthur, who sniffs it cautiously, and takes a bite. His eyes widen.

“This is really good!” he says, surprised. Merlin grins at him.

“Mum’s a great cook,” he smiles, pleased. Arthur munches on his cake and looks around the room. He too, has a four poster bed, hung with red, starry velvet curtains.

“So - you’re - what did your brother say? ‘House of Emrys’? What does that mean?” Merlin shrugs awkwardly, sitting on the edge of his own bed.

“I guess my family’s kind of … old?” He wrinkles his nose. “My ancestors were very powerful - so are my mum and dad, and Morgana and Mordred. I missed out on those genes.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. There’s a knock on the door, and a small creature walks in. It looks a bit like a garden gnome, but with bright pink hair, and iridescent purple-blue skin.

“Dinner is served,” it squeaks, as several more similar creatures enter with a table and chairs, laying it with a white cloth, silver bowls, a tureen of rich, meaty stew, crusty bread, and a platter of honeyed, spiced pears and plums, along with a flagon of apple cider. “The headmaster has sent up the Familiar’s trunk, master Merlin, along with a standard first-year kit.”

“Thanks Cressida!” Merlin says, handing the small being what looks to Arthur like a handful of brass buttons, before sitting down on one of the newly delivered chairs, and spooning stew into his bowl. Arthur’s items from Eton, and his new wizarding set - including red house robes - are deposited at the foot of his bed, and the colourful creatures bow smartly, walking out of the room in a neat procession. Arthur watches them go. When the door is closed, he turns to Merlin.

“And what on earth are _they_?” he asks, boggled.

“Trolls,” Merlin answers, cheeks bulging like a hamster with gravy on his chin. “Guess you haven’t seen one before? They like trinkets for their caves. I give them buttons. They get washed up on the beach near our house.” Arthur stores away this rather bizarre information, and sits down to eat. It’s a strange new world he’s found himself in. 


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Arthur stands at the foot of his bed staring at the red robes Merlin has laid out for him mutinously.

“I’m not wearing those,” he says flatly. Merlin looks at him pleadingly.

“Arthur, you _have_ to wear them. It’s our school uniform!”

“I’m not a student here! I’m your _animal_ , remember! Pets don’t wear clothes _Mer_ lin. Perhaps I should just go down to breakfast naked?” Merlin narrows his eyes at Arthur.

“Fine, go down naked,” he says, crossing his arms. “That’s better than those weird figure-hugging pieces of material _your_ lot wears!” Arthur scrunches up his nose and looks down at himself.

“These are jeans, Merlin?”

“They’re inappropriate,” Merlin sniffs, eyeing the close-fitting garment with distaste. Arthur glares at him.

“Better than wearing a dress!” Merlin looks perplexed.

“What’s ‘address’?” he asks in confusion. Arthur groans and sits on the bed. Merlin comes over and pats his shoulder. “It’s okay Arthur,” he says amenably, “why don’t you wear your genies _under_ your robes, if that makes you feel better?”

“Jeans, not genies!” Arthur snaps, pulling away. “And stop stroking me! I’m not a cat!”

They eventually make it to breakfast with Arthur wearing his Eton uniform, with the red cape as a sort of cloak, in a compromise that had eventually satisfied them both. Arthur looks around the dining hall in wonder; the walls are covered in murals, and the one in front of him - a magical medieval joust - is putting on a show for the students; the unicorns are using their horns as lances to knock the opposing knights off their beasts.

“This is fantastic!” Arthur says enthusiastically around a mouthful of sausage and bacon, “it’s kind of like a television!” Merlin has no idea what a ‘tell-e-vision’ is, but he smiles, glad that Arthur seems happy. He’s pouring over his new timetable for the term.

 

 

 

First to fifth year students at Avalon study 16 core subjects; 4 for each of the main house disciplines (theory, sciences, lore and craft). On top of that they have to choose at least 3 extra-curricular activities from a selection of Music, Sports and Arts, and at least one from each category.

 

 

Third years also have to choose a set of 4 optionals, in training for their Sacramental Assessments (SAs), which happen at the end of their fifth year, when they’re sixteen. After that they can choose 8 subjects to specialise in for their Valedictory Dissertations (VDs), which are the final school exams at the end of their seventh year.

Merlin has chosen Invocation, Kinesis, Necromancy and Illusion for his SAs. Mainly because his mother told him to choose those disciplines; he’d have stuck with the basics if he could. He’s still trying to master the most basic Elemental Magic.

“What’s ‘Aquatic Adventures’?” Arthur asks, peering at the list of extra-curricular choices over Merlin’s shoulder.

“Underwater games,” Merlin explains, putting down his new term’s papers and spooning himself some porridge, “mermaid relations, sea creature studies, coral collecting, swimming spells, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds awesome!” Arthur grins, clearly adjusting to his new surroundings, happily serving himself another plate of smoked haddock scrambled eggs. “We should totally do that one.” Merlin shakes his head.

“I don’t like water,” he admits apologetically. “I mainly stick to the arts activities.”

“Which sport are we doing then?” Arthur asks, pulling Merlin’s timetable across the table. “Mystic Mountaineering?” he scoffs. “What’s that? Walking up hills?” Merlin flushes.

“It seemed safest for me,” he explains with a small shrug. “I’m okay with walking.” He thinks for a moment. “Most of the time,” he adds.

“Well you’re going to be fun to hang out with,” Arthur grimaces. Merlin looks at his oats sadly.

“You might like Theatrics and Tournaments?” he suggests hopefully. “I tend to just sit on the sides and watch. But you can join in?” Arthur looks at him inquiringly. “Oh,” Merlin says. “It’s um … kind of like putting on plays? Performances. Sometimes they’re from old wizarding texts … like _Macbeth_ by the Great Wizard Shakespeare, have you heard of that?” Arthur looks at him with wide-eyes.

“Shakespeare was a wizard!?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, of course,” Merlin says, “where do you think he got all that stuff about the witches and fairies?” Arthur concedes the point.

“Anyway,” Merlin continues, “T&T is also re-enactments of battles and tourneys - sword fighting challenges and the like.”

“I’d probably be excellent at sword fighting,” Arthur agrees, marginally appeased.

 

Their first class of the day is Wandwork. They’re in an enormous atrium, lined with stone columns bearing the statues of legendary creatures, and with the cold autumn sky above them. Their Magical Craft teacher, Professor Eisenheim, stands by a large cherry tree in the courtyard’s centre, with a large pile of rubbish at his feet. Old broomsticks, mismatched spoons, dented suits of armour.

“Well well, welcome back third years, welcome back,” he smiles, bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands enthusiastically. He, like everyone else, can’t stop glancing at Arthur with blatant curiosity - and neither can his emerald swallowtail butterfly Familiar, sitting preternaturally still on a rock beside Arthur. Arthur raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. It’s not _his_ fault he’s here. “Today we’re going to practice the relatively straightforward _Piertotum Locomotor_ spell,” he grins. Merlin groans inwardly. Locomotis is basic magic; a Kinesis spell that allows inanimate objects to move. But although its quantum principles are relatively straightforward, the charm involves tricky wandwork, and neither ‘tricky’ nor ‘wandwork’ are Merlin’s forte. “Everyone select two items,” Eisenheim instructs. “You have thirty minutes to practice making them fight each other. We will watch the best performances at the end of the class.” Merlin stands back as his classmates dive in to get the best props. Valiant chooses the armour, of course, and even mild-mannered Guinevere throws herself into the fray to get two candelabras. By the time everyone has withdrawn to their own corner of the courtyard, Merlin is left with two spoons.

“ _Spoons_?” Arthur says disbelievingly. “You’re going to make _spoons_ fight each other?” Merlin picks them up.

“Probably not,” he replies, sitting down under the tree. He takes out his wand (quartz crystal) and gestures for Arthur to do the same. He received his own crystal wand in the standard first-year kit Kilgarrah had provided. “Hold it in your right hand and direct it at the spoons, imagining all your energy travelling through your body and wand and into the spoons,” he tries to explain. “When the wand feels warm, it means it’s working; you’re channelling magic. Then do this -” Merlin does a funny twist of his wrist, “and I’ll say the incantation. With both our magic, we should have enough power to make the spell work. We can take a spoon each and fight for real!” Arthur rather dubiously holds his stick of crystal and copies Merlin. To his surprise, he does actually feel the wand heat up; it even begins to emit a blueish glow. “Wow!” Merlin exclaims. “Arthur that’s really good, I’ve never seen anyone learn so fast. Now focus your energy on the spoons!” Arthur concentrates his energy on making the spoon nearest to him move, as Merlin begins to incant _piertotum locomotor, piertotum locomotor_ over and over again. Arthur’s hand begins to feel hot, and he winces as it starts to burn, and the spoons melt into liquid silver in front of him.

“Ah!” he cries, dropping his wand. His palm has a nasty red welt burned down its middle.

“Oh gosh,” Merlin whispers, horrified, white as a sheet, “I don’t think our sequence of wrist moments was quite right!”

“You _astonish_ me,” Arthur says icily, cradling his hand, warily eyeing the hissing, spitting, angry pool of molten metal. “You really are the _worst_ wizard.”

 

The rest of the day doesn’t go much better. After Merlin’s taken Arthur to their Healing Centre, to regrow his skin, they make their way to Merlin’s first optional class - Kinesis - which given their recent experience with movement charms, they’re both cautious about. Merlin levitates a book and accidentally flies it into Arthur’s head, cowering into a ball when Arthur begins to hit him around his own head with the offending tome.

“See how you like it!” Arthur yells crossly, and Merlin winces as all his classmates laugh.

Later, in Necromancy, they’re being trained to use force fields in defence against the dark arts. Merlin asks Arthur to help him with the spell, given that Arthur seems to have a very strong innate magical energy, and it's meant to be a Wizard and Familiar task, but Arthur refuses (given that helping Merlin with his spells always seems to ends with his injury), and so Merlin has to try to create an defensive energy shield alone, to repel Professor Heraclitus’s spell: the curse of a basilisk attack. Merlin ends up wrapped in the muscly, sinuous coils of the snake, face slowly turning purple as he’s asphyxiated.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, wide-eyed, “just give me a minute.” Arthur crosses his arms, eyebrows raised.

“At least he got the cuddle he clearly wanted,” Valiant jokes nastily, sneering at Arthur, and before Arthur knows it he’s got Valiant in a headlock, some unknown force of power pouring out of him and keeping Valiant locked in his grip.

“ _Confuto_ ,” Heraclitus mutters, forcing the snake to withdraw, and Merlin collapses spluttering, clutching his neck. “Control your Familiar, Merlin,” he orders coldly, looking down at him, mouth in a thin line. “We don’t tolerate violent behaviour in this school.” Arthur steps back, surprised at himself. He’s never reacted physically in anger before.

“He’s called Arthur,” Merlin murmurs quietly from the floor. As Arthur takes in his skinny frame - looking even more defeated and dejected being _drowned_ by his stupid school robes - his purpling neck, and sad face, he’s suddenly filled with emotions that aren’t his own: humiliation, embarrassment, anxiety, pain; tinged with something protective and proud … _possessive_. Like Arthur had felt when Valiant made fun of Merlin. He’s surprised at the overwhelming guilt he feels at contributing to Merlin’s unhappiness, and Merlin looks up quizzically, as if sensing Arthur’s shift in emotions. He rolls his eyes and puts out a hand to help Merlin up, who stumbles to his feet. Arthur clears his throat.

“Another minute and you’d have had him,” he says gruffly. Merlin flushes. “I should probably help you next time though,” Arthur adds. “Clearly you are useless without me.” Merlin smiles bleakly, ears turning red, and Arthur feels a new warmth spread through him.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of Michaelmas term continues in much the same vein. Arthur likes life at Avalon very much; its castles, woods, mountains and lakes, its lessons with funny brass and gold instruments that measure the energy and magnetic fields of stars, its midnight astronomy sessions huddling in the turrets of needle-thin towers, its flurry of strange creatures - ones that he recognises from his non-magical world, and new, exotic beings from myth and legend - its delicious feasts three times a day, its cosy common rooms, with melting marshmallows to toast after their homework period has finished, around table games like Dragon Puff Billiards and Frog Frenzy, and most of all, Arthur loves its _magic_. The way the whole school feels alive and breathing with ancient energy, from its adventurous oil paintings, lively suits of armour, talking trees, laughing lake, to its teachers and pupils and Familiars - to Arthur himself, who feels a powerful energy growing within him as each day passes - the magic is abundant and delicious and Arthur wouldn’t go back to Eton for anything.

What he’s significantly _less_ happy about, of course, is being bonded to a useless wizard. The concept of ‘forever’ is one he still can’t comprehend. But for now, it’s bearable, and a price worth paying for the privilege of being part of this world, and so he tries not to blame Merlin _too_ much for the situation they find themselves in. As the weeks progress, they almost form a grudging friendship, of sorts, although Merlin is still wary of Arthur, as if constantly expecting his anger and irritation, and Arthur _does_ have to reign in his temper as he gets burnt and scorched and drenched and scratched and covered in slime or offensive-smelling gloop lesson after lesson as Merlin muddles the magic part of _doing magic_. So they cautiously rub along, both defending the other from unkind attention.

When their Christmas holidays arrive, Arthur completely forgets that he’s supposed to spend it with Merlin. He happily packs up his trunk and chats to another Mythology & Mysticism housemate and classmate, Guinevere Farrier, who sits on his bed with her beautiful snowy mink, Elladora, eating liquorice wands and enthusiastically talking about the carol-singing angel they enchant for the top of their tree each year.

“Wow!” Arthur enthuses, scrambling around to find some parchment. “Let me give you my address, you can send me an enchanted picture so I can see her.” Guinevere laughs, turning around to look at Merlin, who’s quietly packing his own trunk in the corner.

“You know Arthur, Merlin’s family doesn’t live that far away from mine. I could just invite you both over one day?” Arthur scoffs.

“I’ll be in London,” he says dismissively. “I have to catch up with some _normal_ people.” Guinevere looks at Merlin.

“You know you can’t be separated from your Wizard, Arthur?” she says uncertainly.

“Silly rule,” Arthur says breezily, “we’re together all term, no harm having a break from each other over Christmas.”

“That’s not really how it works …” Guinevere begins, but Merlin stands up, ears incriminatingly red.

“We can try,” Merlin says softly, looking at Arthur.

 

They sit in the same train compartment as Guinevere and Elladora and her brother Elyan and his Familiar - the most adorable red panda called Rogan - on their way south. Merlin seems quite quiet, playing cards with Elyan, and laughing as Rogan steals his winning cards and throws them out of the window to help Elyan win, but Arthur thinks nothing of it. When they get to London, Arthur lugs his trunk off the train and on to the platform, happily waving goodbye to his friends. They’re staying on the train during its short stopover in Paddington, to allow a new conductor and driver to board before their journey continues southweast, towards Cornwall. They live in a small village on a coastal mountain, called Tintagel.

“See you next term!” Arthur calls cheerfully, seeing his mother and father waiting for him by the newsagent’s stand, and giving his friends a final wave as he makes his way towards them. He gets about a metre away from the train when he realises something’s wrong. He feels like someone is squeezing his lungs, constricting his breath, and all his organs feel painfully tight. He stops, gasping, and tries to get oxygen back into his body to stave off the dizziness, wondering what on earth is happening? Is his body readjusting to a non-magical environment? He takes a few more steps forwards and shouts at the searing heat that splits his skull, almost blinding him.

“Arthur!” he hears someone saying worriedly, “you must come back to the train, Arthur!” Arthur allows himself to be helped up by Elyan and carried back to the train. His breathing eases as he’s pushed back into the compartment, and he winces as he sees Merlin curled up in a shaking ball in the corner, sobbing in pain. He realises this is what happens if you try to split a wizard from their Familiar; they share a soul, and physically separating it - tearing it in two - hurts.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers, crawling over to Merlin and putting a hand on his shoulder. He can see that the pain was worse for Merlin.

“I didn’t want you to stay with me if you don’t want to,” comes the muffled answer. Arthur sighs, oddly fond of his idiot ‘soulmate’, and rolls Merlin over so that they’re looking at each other.

“I wouldn’t have left if I had known it would hurt you,” Arthur says, slightly annoyed. “And me,” he adds, as an afterthought. Merlin snorts and sits up, still shaking.

“Wizards and Familiars whose bonds are broken, _die_ ,” Guinevere chirps up. Arthur raises an eyebrow. She shrugs. “Just thought I’d get that out there,” she says, smiling beatifically. Arthur looks at Merlin crossly.

“You were going to let me _kill_ the both of us!” he yells. Merlin’s eyes widen.

“I thought it might be different, because you’re human,” he explains.

“God, you’re a pea-brain,” Arthur says, finally breathing properly again. He strokes a reassuring hand through Merlin’s hair. “Well, we’ll have to do what Kilgarrah said then. Spend half the hols with my family, and half with yours. Come on, my parents are waiting.” Merlin sits up and looks at Arthur hopefully through his tear-stained face.

“You don’t mind?” he asks. Arthur shrugs.

“Not really, I suppose. You’ll have to be non-magic, of course. No way of explaining _that_ to my family. We can send your parents a note via the Royal Pigeon Messenger Service. We’ll go to them in a week, on Christmas Eve?” Merlin nods, standing up hurriedly, a huge smile lighting up his face.

“Thanks Arthur,” he says, almost shyly, and Arthur puts him in a headlock and messes up his hair, which is his best way of showing affection. Merlin’s grin seems to acknowledge that.

 

 

Kilgarrah must have bewitched Arthur’s parents to be completely unsurprised by anything Arthur-and-Merlin related. When he eventually meets them on the platform, unannounced guest in tow, they hug Merlin as though he’s a long-lost nephew, and tell him how much they’ve been looking forward to meeting him … which is odd, given that Arthur’s never found a way to mention the fact he now _belongs_ to another human called Merlin, and Arthur’s father has never really been one for hugging strangers anyway. They’ve made up the bottom bunk in Arthur’s bedroom already, which surprises Arthur, until he thinks: _Kilgarrah_. Elena, Arthur’s 11-year-old sister, thinks Merlin’s wonderful, and is particularly entranced by his billowing red robes.

“Is he playing dress up?” she asks wide-eyed over supper, stuffing bolognese into her mouth and eyeing Merlin’s cloak enthusiastically. 

“Erm. Sort of. They were just for a fancy dress party at the end of term.”

“He looks like a wizard!” Elena squeals. Merlin chokes on his garlic bread and turns panicked eyes on Arthur.

“Well, he was named after a wizard,” Arthur says sensibly. Merlin is sweet and polite to his family, and in awe of how _still_ everything in his house is. The pictures and furniture are unmoving, nothing vibrates or hums with energy, or talks back. Merlin finds it fascinating. He also finds non-magical food fascinating, apparently. He has great fun sucking up each individual strand of spaghetti between his lips with gusto, going cross-eyed as he watches it disappear, much to Elena’s delight.

“He’s so funny!” she squeals, giggling. “Not like your other friends. They ignore me.”

“That’s because you’re very annoying,” Arthur mutters.

“Am not!” Elena pouts, glaring at him.

 

“You shouldn’t be mean to your sister,” Merlin says, brushing his teeth in the sink in Arthur’s bedroom, looking dwarfed in some of Arthur’s spare pyjamas. “She adores you, you know.” Arthur looks at him.

“We’ve always been like that?” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Arguing is how we show love.” Merlin shakes his head and spits, neatly putting his toothbrush in Arthur’s cup and climbing into the bottom bunk.

“I like your room,” Merlin says sleepily, “and your family, and house. Thank you for inviting me.” Arthur shrugs, sitting on the edge of Merlin’s bed.

“You’ve been showing me around _your_ world all term,” he says, “it’s only fair you see some of mine. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow to get you some normal clothes. You can’t spend your holidays in robes.”

“I know that!” Merlin says, rubbing his face against the pillow in a way that makes Arthur’s heart squeeze, but not in a painful way this time. “At home I wear corduroys and fairisle jumpers.”

“You’re actually from the Dark Ages, aren’t you?” Arthur comments, lightly running his forefinger down Merlin’s furrowed brow as he falls asleep, mumbling to himself grumpily.

 

“I am _NOT_ wearing this!” Merlin shouts from the changing room at Marks & Spencer’s. Arthur peers around the curtain to see Merlin in skinny jeans and a polo t-shirt, looking very different. And angry. “I look _naked_!” he hisses, crossing his arms mutinously. “Why do you people wear clothes that stick to your body? It’s weird. And uncomfortable.” Arthur closes the curtain and laughs.

“Fine, let’s go and find you something baggier, you big baby.” They go to John Lewis next, and Arthur leaves Merlin to trail through the clothes racks to find some things he likes, whilst he and his father, Uther, look at presents for his mum and sister. They’re in the ‘bath art’ section, looking at oils and soaps for his mum, when a kindly shopping assistant taps Arthur on the shoulder.

“Your friend requests you in the changing room, Sir,” she says politely, with an odd sort of smile on her face. Arthur’s dad raises an eyebrow, but they follow her through to the changing rooms and see Merlin standing in the middle of the floor, twirling in front of the central mirror, wearing a bath robe - a _dressing gown -_ in a plush burgundy material with a wizard and Mickey Mouse (from Fantasia - The Sorcerer’s Apprentice) making a broom with two water pails do a dance, with stars all around his head.

“Look, Arthur!” Merlin beams, delighted. “I had no idea you had clothes like this in your world! Why do you wear the odd stuff, when you have lovely gowns like this? It even has a wizard with his Familiar on it! A giant mouse!” His bare legs stick out from the bottom, and Arthur worries he’s wearing nothing underneath, one loose belt away from indecent exposure.

“Oh god,” he mutters, hurrying over to Merlin and dragging him back to his cubicle.

“It’s all fine,” Uther says calmly to the sniggering assistants, “just boys being boys; they get very excitable at Christmas don’t they? Perhaps we should leave them to their jollities.”

Arthur blinks inside Merlin’s stall. It’s all dressing gowns and baggy tartan pyjama bottoms and enormous XXL sweaters and lurid Hawaiian-print shirts. Merlin’s looking at his face nervously.

“You don’t like any of it?” he asks, hurt in his eyes.

“It’s all very colourful,” Arthur says carefully. “In my world we only wear robes at bedtime. But we can get that for you, if you like it, to wear at home in the evenings? We’ll just have to find you some daywear for when you’re outside the house.”

“But I can get the robe with the Familiar illustration!” Merlin asks excitedly. Arthur nods.

“I suppose that can be my Christmas present to you,” he says. Merlin gives him a huge hug, and Arthur hugs him back awkwardly, relaxing as he smells Merlin’s lavender shampoo, and squeezing him tightly back.

Two hours later they leave town; Merlin with several pairs of checkered wide-leg trousers, novelty Christmas sweaters (Merlin loves the pictures - wizarding clothes don’t have pictures on them), striped socks and smart ankle boots, along with some Super Man pyjamas and his Disney dressing gown. He’s wearing one new outfit already: Elmer the Elephant print trousers with a red novelty jumper showing a picture of a roguishly winking Father Christmas with his hand on the head of a very bashful elf with the slogan _‘When I think about you, I touch my elf’_ … Merlin thinks it’s another wizard/Familiar reference, Arthur thinks it’s a joke he doesn’t understand, and Uther splutters and turns red when he sees it, which Merlin mistakes for admiration.

“Arthur helped me choose it,” he says proudly, stroking his front, and Uther eyes both of them with alarm.

“I think we might need to have _The Talk_ with Arthur, darling,” Arthur hears his dad saying to his mum over the phone whilst they shop for presents, and whilst he ascertains that 'The Talk' is probably Merlin related, he’s not really sure there’s much to be done about him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Merlin’s house is very different to Arthur’s. Where Arthur’s house is an expensive, understated Georgian terrace in one of London’s most upmarket areas, Hampstead Heath - sugar white with black wrought iron detailing, carefully cultivated greenery … neatly trimmed hedges and boxed trees … and tasteful, neutral interiors - Merlin’s house is straight out of a fairytale. It’s completely isolated - a two mile walk from the nearest town, Tintagel - nestled at the foot of a cliff, at the edge of an ancient forest, on its very own stretch of beach; a stark stretch of white-sanded Cornish coastline, bordered by a hard iron sea. It looks part castle, part medieval manor, part storybook cottage, rambling and wild and romantic and higgledy-piggledy, but imposing and grand too. Beyond the forest, in the distance, out of the swirling mists and silvery sea-spray is a view of Tintagel Castle, the ruined medieval fortifications rising up from the land like the spiked spine of a dragon, ready to unfurl its wings and take flight once again. The scene is even more impressive for the white dragon usually roaming its shores, the mythical golden griffin sitting guardian at the carved oak front doors, and the Amazonian panther and dire wolf slinking through the forests as Merlin’s barefooted siblings chase one another.

Merlin and Arthur arrive in Cornwall by train on the morning of Christmas eve (which for Merlin is the eve of Midwinter Festival), and are picked up by Merlin’s father Balinor, who has harnessed his white dragon Familiar, Aithusa, for three riders and their luggage. Arthur is spellbound from the first moment he meets the gentle Aithusa, and Merlin’s warm, gruff father, but absolutely _entranced_ when he sees their house, Myghtern Mote.

“It’s our ancestral family home,” Merlin explains nervously as they land, wondering whether Arthur will mind their remote rural living. “The Emrys family has lived here since the 5th century.”

“It’s the most incredible place I’ve ever seen!” Arthur exclaims delightedly. “You lucky person!” Merlin grins at his father, who grins back and puts his arm around Merlin’s bony shoulders.

“Well, Arthur, you’re an Emrys now, so this is your home too. Hunith’s been making adjustments to Merlin’s room so that you’ll feel comfortable here.”

“That’s very kind sir, thank you, but Merlin snores whatever our sleeping arrangements, so there’s only so much comfort to be had.” Balinor’s answering laugh is deep and resonant, and Merlin laughs too, a little ruefully.

“We’re very glad to meet Merlin’s Familiar,” Balinor says, “- and very proud too. I hear from Kilgarrah that you have a lot of innate power?”

“Oh, yes!” Merlin agrees immediately. “He’s much more powerful than me! And he learns so quickly dad, he’s brilliant, truly.” Arthur fidgets awkwardly, but Balinor smiles at him, and kisses Merlin’s forehead.

“I’d expect nothing less from my wonderful youngest son’s soul-bonded,” he says quietly, and Merlin flushes from the praise, pleased.

Inside, the house is just as eclectic. Arthur feels like he’s fallen into Wonderland; it’s a curiosity shop of wonders. Intricately painted Greek and Roman frescos and murals adorn the ceilings and panelled walls, concealing hidden doors connecting different parts of the house; ornate gilded paintings of Merlin’s bearded ancestors, looking very dignified in their jewel-coloured robes, half-moon spectacles, jauntily perched hats and heavy tomes of magic; rich tapestries depicting unicorns and lions - Britain's heraldic beasts; thick Persian rugs that look like Aladdin’s flying carpets; rich Baroque furniture; religious relics; ornamental grandfather clocks with planets circling where numbers should be; brass Moroccan genie lamps and colourful glass lanterns; ancient maps and illustrated globes showing the locations of things Arthur previously considered to be mythical places and creatures: Atlantis, Poseidon’s Palace, Leviathan’s Lair and the Loch Ness Monster’s Caves.

“Are these places real?” he asks Merlin, eyes like saucers as he’s led through the house trying to look at everything at once. Merlin wrinkles his brow.

“I think so, mostly. My dad’s visited Atlantis; it’s the Merpeople’s capital city. I’m not sure about the Loch Ness Monster’s caves; lots of people just think its a regular old knucker.”

“A knucker?” Arthur asks blankly.

“An English water dragon. They live in knuckerholes, not caves. The other theory is that its a neck.” Merlin sees Arthur’s confusion. “A shapeshifting water spirit,” Merlin elaborates. “Explains why no-one can find it, if it takes different forms. One day it might just be a trout, or a clam. Thing is, sea monsters are _nasty_ , and old Nessie seems pretty harmless, so the magical community is fairly certain that legend is erroneous, if not absolutely incorrect.”

“Right,” Arthur says, adding dazedly, “that makes sense.”

Along with all the heirlooms and treasures are the sort of home comforts Arthur recognises: leather armchairs with tartan wool throws, thousands of books, stacks of newspapers and board games, an old gramophone and art deco walnut wood wireless radio, house plants; odd, furry purple cactuses that shiver and turn pink when you come near them, nyctinastical flowers that close their petals to sleep at night, and carnivorous ones like bright blue Venus Flytraps that have sharp teeth to eat passing insects. The kitchen, when they reach it, is clearly the heart of the home, buzzing with life; a crackling fire, a broom sweeping dust into an iron pan, neon green fireflies jumping between clumps of mistletoe that sprout from the timber beams in merry Yuletide spirit, an enormous 7ft Christmas tree laden with giggling gingerbread men and singing angels and snowy baubles that are swirling snow globes, not to mention the array of household pets; owls, pigeons, chickens, ducks, all swarming in and out of the doors and windows, picking grain off the floors, snoozing by the fire. Morgana and Mordred are sitting at the kitchen table playing a card game, _Wizard Snap!_ , in which the cards are from a Major Arcana tarot deck, not regular playing cards. When two matching cards land together on top of the deck, the whole pile explodes, and the characters jump from their pictures and fight each other to the death, so that their player either wins or loses that round. It’s a very violent card game. Isis and Aitana are sleeping at their feet, under the table, a large griffin sits statesman like on a Chesterfield, and a phoenix stands on the cluttered kitchen island, nibbling at a mince pie.

“That’s Diodorus,” Merlin says, pointing at the griffin, “Mum’s Familiar, and that’s our family phoenix, Ptolemy. He’s been with the house for over a thousand years.” Arthur waves at the birds a little foolishly, and jumps as Morgana squawks.

“Take that!” she yells, as her Emperor beats Mordred’s with his crown. Mordred turns an angry glare on his own Emperor.

“Use the poisoned chalice you useless lump!” he shouts.

“Ignore them, dear,” a kindly woman with Merlin’s sweet blue eyes greets Arthur, wiping her hands on a gingham apron. “They’re very competitive. Our Merlin’s normally a calming influence, but without him here …” she looks at Morgana and Mordred, both singed from their exploding card game, “well … they get rather out of hand. It’s so wonderful to meet you at last, Arthur, we’ve been so excited ever since we heard news of the bonding. I’m Hunith.”

“Lovely to meet you too,” Arthur smiles, accepting Hunith’s hug. “Merlin talks about you all the time. He’d much prefer to be here than at school I think.”

“That might change, now he has you for company,” Hunith says briskly, patting his cheek, and pulling her son into her arms. “How’s my precious baby boy?” she coos. “Did you enjoy London?” Merlin nods enthusiastically.

“Nothing _moves_ mum!” he says excitedly. “And they have switches that make light and sound, like we do with wands, and funny food, and clothes with _pictures_. And adventure picture worlds in funny electronic screens where you can take control of a character’s journey using oddly-shaped discs with wiggly knobs and buttons, called _games consoles._ I was terrible at it, but Arthur says I’ll get better, and his friends were really nice trying to teach me about the Mushroom Kingdom and fireball-throwing and rescuing Princess Peach.” Hunith looks bemused, but absolutely delighted at her son’s shining face. She glances at Balinor, and they share a private look; their son is blossoming, and his Familiar is clearly doing wonders for him.

“My, my, you have been having adventures,” she smiles. “We’ll have to make sure Arthur’s stay here is just as lively.”

“I’d be happy just exploring the house,” Arthur admits, frowning as Morgana calls “ _Losers!_ ” from behind a growing stack of cards. “At least I still have both my _eyebrows_ ,” he retorts haughtily, and Merlin snorts, pulling Arthur out of the kitchen hastily before Morgana can retaliate.

They spend most of the day collecting shells from the beach (if you put them close to your ear, you can hear mermaids singing), and the washed up buttons Merlin had told Arthur about at the beginning of term, for tipping the school trolls.

“Where do they all come from?” Arthur asks, bemused, shoving a handful of brass buttons into Merlin’s basket.

“Probably from the shipwrecks at Penzance,” Merlin mumbles, rubbing the sand off on his robe before dropping them on top of Arthur’s. “It was a famous pirate community - sorcerer pirates - necromancers. They were defeated by my ancestor Merlin. Their ships lie on the seabeds all along this coastline.”

“So these are _pirate_ buttons?” Arthur asks, amazed. Merlin nods. “Well, give me a few!” he says, digging his hand into the basket and taking some back. “These must be really valuable!” Merlin shrugs, as if value is of no consequence to him.

Merlin’s bedroom is in the attic; its ceiling arched like a cathedral roof, stories of the Holy Grail and the Knights Templar and Camelot depicted all around his room, with knights and dragons and a castle painted on the walls under the sloping eaves. The round, diamond-paned windows overlook the forests and the sea, and two big beds sit side by side, one with a thick red and gold velvet throw, with Arthur’s name embroidered on it, and a motif of crowns and swords, and one made of a sumptuous green silk, embroidered with trees, and leaves, and dancing wood spirits. It looks like a renaissance oil painting Arthur saw in an art exhibition with his mother once, at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford; _The Hunt in the Forest_ by Paolo Uccello. Something about it whispers to him. The antique dresser between the beds has a pile of books on Arthur’s side of the bed, with titles like _The Magician’s Nephew_ and _The Weirdstone of Brisingamen_.

“They’re all written by wizards,” Merlin says from behind him. “But they’re sold in your world as fantasy stories. Mum thought you’d like to read stuff you might recognise?” Arthur’s heart swells; he feels truly welcome here, more at home than in his own house even, where he knows he’s loved. But here … it’s as though he’s a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that’s just found its correct place.

“I love everything,” Arthur says truthfully, warming at Merlin’s pinkening ears. “I’m going to teach you how to play poker,” he adds. “Those ears are a dead giveaway, I’d make a fortune.”

“Isn’t polka a dance?” Merlin asks quizzically.

“Poker’s a card game. But we can learn the polka too, if want to fancy dance with me _Mer_ lin.” Merlin shakes his head emphatically.

That night, they all sit around the fire - dragon included - in the cavernous library with hot cinnamon-spiced honeymilk and orange and nutmeg buns, whilst Balinor reads them the wizarding world’s favourite Yuletide tale from his own ancient grimoire; _Ring the bells, Rasputin’s dead_. It tells the story of the dark wizard Rasputin’s uprising in the 12th century, the havoc wrought by his evil Familiar, the albino bat Bartok, and how he was overthrown by the beautiful High Priestess Nimueh and an ordinary Christian mortal, St Nicholas, during the pagan Saturnalia festival, on a night now known to non-magical people as Christ’s Mass … Christmas. The seasonal wizard celebration is actually the winter solstice, or Midwinter Festival, on the 22nd December, but they traditionally hold their Midwinter Feast on the 25th in order to align with the legend of Rasputin’s downfall on the day of Christ’s Mass. Arthur finds it all mind-boggling and fantastic, and falls asleep to the sound of the sea outside, Merlin’s puppy snores, and images of shipwrecked pirates and evil necromancers and shapeshifting sea spirits dancing across his mind.

When Arthur wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is a lumpy brown package at the foot of his bed. The second thing he sees is Merlin, standing by Arthur’s side in a dark red knitted vest, thick tartan undershirt, billowing red velvet trousers, and his Mickey Mouse bathrobe, smiling his face-splitting beam.

“I’m wearing your Christmas present!” he exclaims excitedly, picking up the lumpy package and thrusting it into Arthur’s hands. “This is my present to you,” he says, eagerly jigging from foot to foot as he waits for Arthur to open it. Arthur raises an eyebrow, still a little sleepy, and peels back the wrapping paper. It’s a brown tunic and hooded cloak, suspiciously similar to an old monk’s habit, complete with tassel-cord belt, and badly hand-stitched mice (they look like potatoes with ears) scurrying around the bottom hem. “I designed it myself,” Merlin says proudly. “I’ve been doing it when you were sleeping, to keep it a surprise. I chose the robes from the Monastic Collection at Wizard Wardrobe, where I get all my clothes from, and had it delivered via the midnight express Pigeon Mail - they’re vintage Friar garments, from your world! I embroidered it with mouse Familiars, to match mine, and enchanted them to move.” Arthur blinks at the hopping potatoes in his lap. It’s honestly the most revolting thing he has ever seen, but there’s really no easy way to tell Merlin that.

“Erm. It’s - um.” He scratches his head. “You must have made loads of effort, Merlin, thank you.” He looks at the dancing mice. “Looks like a tricky piece of charm work, too?” Merlin beams, nodding.

“My spells have been getting more focused since we bonded. I think my energy is more stable, or something, now that it’s bound with yours? I don’t know. Put them on then!” Which is how Arthur find himself dressed like a monk for Christmas.

Mordred’s face looks constipated when they both enter the kitchen. He swallows down his current mouthful of food - their traditional Midwinter breakfast feast consists of grilled kippers, devilled duck eggs, bubble and squeak, toad in the hole with venison sausages, buttery smoked haddock and sultana kedgeree, black pudding with Gentleman’s Relish, winterberry and seaweed salad, suet mince pies, and rough oatmeal pancakes topped with a hot blood orange, rhubarb, pomegranate and whisky sauce - and points his fork at them.

“Do either of you have _any_ idea how utterly stupid you look?” he asks flatly. _Yes_ , Arthur thinks.

“Actually, Mordred,” Merlin sniffs, sitting at the medieval trestle table decorated with silver candlesticks, sprigs of holly, assorted pine cones and orange and clove pomander balls, “in Arthur’s world, the clothes are illustrated. My gift from Arthur is a Disney night robe with a wizard and his mouse Familiar. I made Arthur one to match.” He strokes his dressing gown proudly and helps himself and Arthur to kippers, whilst a million pairs of astounded eyes - Aithusa included, peering through the kitchen window - turn to Arthur. He shrugs in a helpless, _what can you do?_ sort of way, sitting beside Merlin and serving him a pancake. The whole family watches as they work silently, in easy tandem, to fill each other’s plates and begin to eat, apparently unaware of their subconscious concern for one another.

“Well,” Hunith clears her throat, “we’re always very glad to learn new customs in this house. It’s a very fine garment that Arthur bought you my love.” Merlin smiles and flushes, butter running down his chin, eyes flicking to Arthur with something akin to adoration. Morgana smiles knowingly at Balinor, and Mordred just shakes his head, feeding Isis bits of sausage under the table.

Towards the end of their holiday, on a snowy January afternoon, Arthur convinces Merlin to let him take out one of the painted Myghtern Mote rowing boats, tethered and bobbing in the Tudor style wooden-framed and thatched boathouse. Merlin sits nervously, clutching the sides, desperately fearing the water, whilst Arthur rows them out to sea and along the coast towards Tintagel Castle, when suddenly, the most tremendous storm begins to whip the sea into a frenzy.

“How on _earth_ is there a storm!?” Arthur splutters incredulously, fighting to keep control of the boat being tossed from wave to wave, to a white-knuckled Merlin’s absolute horror and dismay. “It was deadly still and calm and quietly snowing when we set off!” Merlin reaches for his wand, shivering uncontrollably.

“I d-don’t th-think this is a n-normal s-storm,” he stutters, moving closer to Arthur as the sky turns black and the sea turns violet, poker-hot lightning tearing apart the sky. Arthur yells as both oars are ripped from his hands, and a blistered fire-coloured tentacle rises from the water, wrapping itself around the boat.

“Oh my god,” Arthur curses, getting down in the belly of the boat and pushing Merlin beneath him protectively. “What is that thing?”

“K-kraken,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur quails as he sees a giant octopus rise from the water, its monstrous tentacles surrounding them, pulling them closer to its mouth. It slowly tips the boat to one side and they tumble out, clinging to the exposed hull. “I c-can’t s-swim,” Merlin says, terrified, and Arthur yells as Merlin loses his grip and slips underwater, feeling the now-familiar choking feeling of being separated from his soulmate. He feels the most enormous surge of energy within himself, hot and fierce and angry, and sinks beneath the water to grab Merlin’s hand. With a sudden, instinctive idea of what he needs to do, he puts both his and Merlin’s wands in Merlin’s unconscious hand, and pushes his energy through himself and into Merlin, until the combined crystals release a beacon of boiling white light, straight into the core of the beast. An enraged howl echoes through the sea, and suddenly the surrounding cage of tentacles disappears, and the beast disappears into the blackness of the ocean. He struggles to the water’s surface with Merlin, lifting his head above the water, and begins to swim for land. He jolts as he feels strong arms surround them both, seeing a merman with flowing white hair carrying them safely to the shore.

“Thank you,” he gulps exhaustedly when his feet finally find sand, and the merman bows his head.

“I am Triton, sire,” he says in a mellow, liquid, musical voice that flows into Arthur’s blood soothingly, “one of the sons of Poseidon, brother to Atlas, the king of Atlantis, father to the mer-mage Ariel, and guardian of the Tintagel waters, birthplace of magic. It is my pleasure to serve the once and future King, and the lord of magic,” he says seriously. “Heed me, young Arthur. You are two sides of the same coin, destined and always. As your power grows in might, so too does Merlin’s. He commands _all_ energy, drawing it from the fabric of the earth, and bending it to his will. You are the key to unlocking and releasing his power.” Triton looks at Arthur gravely. “But when a force of light rises, as yours and Merlin’s has done and will do across the centuries, it sends a tremor through the earth that opens a gateway to the Netherworld, the Underworld, releasing an opposing dark energy into the ether, for that is the natural law and balance of the universe. Light and dark. There are warlocks from the Old Religion who await your arrival in each generation, Arthur, for the lifetimes you are reborn, waiting to harness that dark energy. They seek to defeat your immortal and enduring prophecy of Lord and King and to reign the course of history in your place, for the rest of ages. You and Merlin must work together to conquer and quell the darkness, Arthur. You must protect Merlin at all costs.” Arthur doesn’t understand a word of what’s been said, but the urgency in Triton’s voice fills him with fear, and he nods his promise. “Get home now,” Triton says gently, “At Myghtern Mote and Avalon Academy you are safe. I will send word to Balinor, the Dragonlord.” Triton disappears into the sea and Arthur wades to shore, gently placing an unconscious Merlin on the wet beach. Where lighting has struck the sand there are the most incredible fulgurite lightning sand glass sculptures, and Arthur feels, not for the first time since meeting Merlin, that he’s in a children’s storybook, malevolent and ethereal all at once. He places his forehead against Merlin’s and lets their energies flow together; he can feel Merlin’s heartbeat, slowed by his unnatural sleep, and pushes his energy through the labyrinth of Merlin until it hits his heart, and Merlin wakes with a gasp, coughing up water and clinging to him. Arthur sighs in relief and sinks backwards, closing his eyes and pulling Merlin close to him. They stay curled together until Balinor and Aithusa find them, and carry them home.

“You saved my life,” Merlin says, curled into the sofa by the fire and wrapped in blankets, Mordred and Morgana on either side of him, all watching Arthur, who’s being tended by Hunith. His face feels sore, and he realises its covered in bloody scratches.

“What’s a Familiar for?” Arthur grins, wincing as he feels the tug of healing skin on his cheek. “Anyway, if you died, I’d be dead too, and I quite like my life. You aside.” It’s meant as a joke, but Merlin’s face twists, and he buries his head in Morgana’s shoulder. She strokes his hair, and rolls her eyes at Arthur.

“Nice,” she mutters sarcastically.

“What you did was very brave, Arthur,” Hunith says, quietening Morgana with a glance. “Your actions were heroic, and saved both your lives.” Arthur shrugs.

“Actually it was sort of Merlin, not me. I just realised his wand needed my energy, and then it was like a bolt of lightning came out of him and hit the kraken and it vanished!”

“That’s very advanced magic,” Mordred says slowly, looking at his mother, but she shakes her head, and Arthur gets the feeling that there’s something not being spoken about; a suspicion that increases when he sees Hunith, Balinor and _Kilgarrah_ of all people, having a hushed, serious conversation in the library as he and Merlin make their way to bed. But Aithusa moves to block the doorway, breathing gentle streams of hot air to push them along, and that’s the last Arthur thinks of it.

In bed, strangely aware of Merlin’s emotions again, fluttering inside him among his own, Arthur can sense jittery nervousness, unease, a bone-deep coldness, an awful feeling of _drowning_ , and he can _hear_ Merlin shivering beneath his rustling covers, his teeth chattering.

“Oh for goodness sake,” he mumbles, climbing out of bed and into Merlin’s, wrapping his arms around his wizard friend. “Like anyone could sleep with the racket you’re making.”

“Sorry,” Merlin whispers, shaking against him. He pulls the covers high over them both and snuggles against Merlin’s back, nosing the warm nape of his neck, and feeling suddenly calmer, warmer, safer, more complete, in such close proximity to his other half. Merlin’s breathing settles and he entwines his fingers with Arthur’s, pulling Arthur’s arms around him tighter, and falling asleep as one.

It’s hard to sleep apart after that, and so they don’t, cuddling together like other wizards and their Familiars. It doesn’t feel weird to either of them. Morgana sleeps with a _panther_ wrapped around her, and that’s infinitely more disturbing in their minds.

 


	5. Chapter 5

After Christmas, in a bleak, white January, Merlin and Arthur return to school for their Vernal (Spring Equinox) term. Something in their dynamic has shifted, imperceptible to them, but obvious to the keen eyes of their headmaster and his salamander. Whereas before Arthur could only sense Merlin’s emotions when they were particularly heightened, or when he was under immense duress - and Merlin couldn’t really sense Arthur’s at all, given that he had (subconsciously) kept his mind and heart closed to Merlin - now they can feel each other’s moods, thoughts, feelings, and senses easily, almost as though the other were simply an extension of themselves. Kilgarrah and Solomon watch in the shadows as the two boys walk along the draughty entrance cloisters dragging their trunks behind them, snow billowing through the arches and settling on their hair; dark and light. Valiant’s nasty pitbull dog trips Merlin as Valiant shoves him against one of the pillars, and Arthur - who had been three or four strides ahead - twirls immediately with a face like thunder, wand to Valiant’s throat before he even registers Arthur’s presence. He and his cronies Cenred and Hengist slink away with muttered curses, leaving Merlin rubbing his head and Arthur wincing in sympathy pain, the echos of Merlin’s thump throbbing through his own temples. Without speaking, he takes Merlin’s trunk handle in his left hand, his own in his right, and continues their journey down the corridor with both their luggage, Merlin stumbling by his side.

“So much for being able to ‘draw energy’ and be all _wham!_ super-powered,” Merlin mutters, eyes downcast.

“He caught you off guard,” Arthur says briskly. “You were being an idiot mooning over the snow and not watching where you were going.” At Merlin’s depressed sigh, Arthur nudges him. “You just need practice,” he reassures him. “Or potentially a more life-threatening situation?” Merlin smiles at Arthur widely.

“Prat,” he says, without heat.

“Why does he hate you so much, anyway?” Merlin sniffs haughtily.

“Probably because my Familiar is _so_ much better looking than his ugly mutt.” Arthur throws his head back and laughs, and Merlin laughs too, and Solomon raises a non-existent scaly eyebrow at Kilgarrah.

“Yes, yes,” Kilgarrah smiles, stroking a bony finger down his lizard’s scaly back, “you told me so. Destiny indeed.”

 

*

 

Throughout Vernus term, their Eostara school holiday (Eostre was the Saxon mother goddess, the source of all things and the bringer of new life, and the dawn goddess Ostara represented fertility and rebirth - the Christian church stole their names for their religious festival of ‘Easter’), and then their Helios term (summer, named for the Greek god of sun), Arthur and Merlin stay up late in the school library, practicing their magics; Arthur has an innate, powerful energy within himself - his very soul is born of magic - and he learns to wield it defensively, nurturing it to defend, shield, protect. He can force the energy out of himself to create powerful magnetic force fields that lock him and Merlin in a bubble of invisible safety, he can channel power through swords and spears, and he can let it flow into Merlin, providing him with the power he needs to spellcast. If Arthur is the shield, Merlin is the sword; if Arthur is the battery charge, Merlin is the magical dynamo superpowered by his energy. Merlin finds it easy to access Arthur’s energy, to draw it into himself and thrust it back out into the world with precision; they practice hitting trees with lighting bolts, and cracking mountain rocks in half with a single arrow from Arthur’s bow. What Merlin finds harder, is drawing energy from the ground, the trees, the air, the water, the people around him. But they practice together until Arthur is drained, and Merlin is _burning_ from absorbing too much energy; it’s hot, and blinding - he becomes his house element: _fire_ \- and he and Arthur crawl into bed and press their foreheads together; as Merlin lets energy seep back into Arthur, it restores his Familiar to full strength, and lessens his own magical burden. 

Soon Kilgarrah is not the only professor to notice that Merlin suddenly _isn’t_ the Worst Wizard in school. Yes, he’s clumsy and scatterbrained and forgetful and that doesn’t make for an ideal student, but his spells work now, and there’s a new calmness to him, a confidence, an increasing stability, and balance, rooted in the grounding earth element that he invoked in his Familiar. Arthur is the land from which he is nurtured, grown, and held steady; the rock on which he is built. And Merlin is the flame that lights up Arthur’s life, imbuing it with heat and beauty and magic and intensity. 

 

 

Merlin turns 14 as his third year finishes, on Midsummer’s Day, the 24th June. He is the youngest in his year and Arthur is the oldest - he turned 14 at the start of third year Michaelmas term on the 1st September, and will soon be 15.

 

They spend the first half of their summer holiday with Arthur’s family, at their second home in Provence; a small château surrounded by rolling vineyards, olive groves, pine forests and lavender fields, just a short drive from the Côte d’Azur, glamorous towns studding the belt of white coastline along the Mediterranean Sea like glittering jewels. Along with a now 12-year-old Elena, and her friend Sophia, they spend a month covered in sticky grape juice, clothes dusty, faces browned and freckled from the heat of the sun, sea salt making their skin and hair grainy and stiff. Arthur watches as Merlin licks the salt from his lips, giggling as it mixes with the lemon from his ice-cream, swinging his legs over the side of the stone bridge to Basta Rock in Biarritz, resisting the strangest urge to lick it off himself. Merlin turns to him with crinkled, smiling eyes, freckles covering his nose, leaning into his space and resting his head against Arthur’s shoulder with a happy sigh. Arthur feels his heat all the way up the left hand side of his body, smells Merlin’s sweet salt-sweat-slicked skin, and nuzzles Merlin’s hair, lightly brushing his lips against Merlin’s forehead, tongue flicking out to taste. Merlin releases a small sound, large blue eyes - deeper than the surrounding ocean - slowly rising to meet his; curious, shimmering with something new and uncertain. The moment is broken by Sophia.

“I want a boyfriend like Arthur!” she huffs crossly, crawling up beside them on the bridge with her own chocolate ice-cream and kicking Arthur’s feet. He shudders and Merlin laughs quietly.

“You’re a child,” Arthur points out, moving as far away from her as he can without falling into the water below. Merlin would probably jump after him, but he still hasn’t forgotten about their ill-fated sailing adventure with the kraken, and Arthur doesn’t want to re-inspire the nightmares. 

“Am not!” Sophia says angrily, frowning at Merlin, who’s entwined his free fingers with Arthur’s. Elena rolls her eyes.

“Are so,” she shoots back. “You still have Barbie pyjamas. And that’s my big brother Sophs. It’s _gross!_ ” Merlin nods sagely.

“Arthur is very gross,” he mollifies Sophia. “His feet smell like cheese after Mountaineering. And he drools in his sleep. And he just licked my face!” 

“ _Eeewwww_ ,” Elena complains, wrinkling up her face in disgust as Arthur blushes. Sophia looks at Arthur with a sudden distaste. 

“I don’t like cheese,” she sniffs. Arthur shrugs. 

“Ah well, my loss then,” he says cheerfully. 

 

 

The second half of their summer holiday is spent roaming the woods and coastline at Tintagel, building epic sand fortresses with moats and battlements, crabbing with old-fashioned nets and tin buckets, picking wild strawberries and apples and plums and helping Hunith bake pies and summer puddings, garden barbecues where the fish is grilled with dragon fire, courtesy of Aithusa, attending the local pagan festivals - Celtic rock music and barrels of scrumpy and hog roasts and Maypole Dancing and ritualistic bonfires - playing hide and seek with Mordred and Isis and Morgana and Aitana, now graduated from Avalon Academy and set to attend the Dunvegan College of Unseen Arts to train as a Soothaying Sorceress. 

At one festival towards the end of summer, when August turns gold and hazy, Merlin gets sick from scrumpy (not having a very strong constitution for alcohol), and Arthur rubs his back as he vomits into a blackberry bush. When the nausea has passed he carefully extracts all the twigs from Merlin’s hair and pulls him into his lap, leaning back against one of the round hay bales dotting the yellow field whilst Merlin whimpers against his neck. He strokes Merlin’s hair and rocks him gently, watching mesmerised as the sparks at the top of the bonfire dance in arcs of light, soaring with the violinists’ bows. He doesn’t notice the sallow-faced man in the dark robes watching them from across the field. 

 

 

By the time they return to school to begin their fourth year, Arthur has turned 15. They go from strength to strength academically, quickly becoming the most powerful Student and Familiar duo in school. Arthur convinces Merlin to let them compete in the school Familiar Training Tournaments and they always win, spending their prize coupons on sweets and foamy hot chocolates from the school tuck shop. Kilgarrah watches with increasing amazement as Merlin begins to casually draw energy from the trees in the courtyard, his fellow students, their Familiars, the storm clouds passing overhead. He watches as he and Arthur move fluidly together, mirroring each other’s actions, expressions, behaviours. 

When a demon shadow assassin breaks through the academy’s defensive spells and tries to kill Arthur - which deeply worries Balinor and Kilgarrah, because the only wizard with that kind of dark power, Rasputin, died hundreds of years previously - Merlin reacts in his _sleep_ , urgently drawing energy from the fire embers glowing in the hearth of their bedroom and incinerating the intruder. It had taken days to calm him down, terrified of his own actions, terrified that he might one day accidentally hurt _Arthur_. He’d held Arthur’s hand for two full weeks afterwards, needing to be physically connected to him at all times, to _know_ that he was safe. Arthur, for his part, had woken up when he sensed his soulmate’s unconscious distress, and seeing a burning monster at the foot of their bed, and Merlin sweating and shaking uncontrollably beside him, had simply pushed his energy into Merlin to restore his balance, gently and calmly bringing him back, rooting him to Arthur again. 

“Aww, are you _boyfriends_ now?” Valiant and Cenred cooed nastily in a Potions class towards the end of Helios term, as Arthur patiently cleared up another of Merlin’s spilt cauldrons (clumsiness, this time, rather than magical incompetence). 

“Soulmates, actually,” Arthur replied coolly, gently administering a calendula paste to Merlin’s burnt fingers. Valiant snorted and tried for a kinetic spell, hurling a set of nearby test tubes and jars, filled with pickled newts, at their heads. Merlin stood up with a face like thunder and made the whole lot explode into shimmering dust with a single _look_ , moving angrily in front of Arthur. The bullying stopped then. 

 

 

In their fourth year summer holidays, Merlin turns 15 too, and finally masters the art of computer games. Arthur’s old friends from Eton whoop and catcall and Merlin blushes furiously, face firmly planted in Arthur’s armpit. Arthur force-feeds him celebratory nachos and Merlin laughs helplessly with salsa smeared all across his face. They stare at each other, Arthur pinning Merlin to the floor, both growing conscious of their position, of the new energy between them, something different and hot and bright flaring at the edges of their consciousness. 

“Jesus Christ,” Leon mutters from the sofa above them. “Can you guys save the eye-fucking and frotting for alone-time? There’s only so much of you two a horny single bloke can take.” Percy nods in fervent agreement. Arthur flushes and sits up, pulling Merlin upright too.

“Horny?” Merlin asks, looking at Leon with interest. “I can’t see any? Are you a satyr, or a minotaur or a fawn?” He considers Leon’s curly hair. “A fawn, maybe? Do you know what family line?” Leon looks at Merlin, astonished, and Arthur pushes Merlin back down to the floor and thumps a cushion over his face. 

“He’s kidding. Odd sense of humour.” Leon laughs bemusedly and Arthur sets up the next game, hoping to change the subject.

In bed later, Merlin rolls around to face him. “What’s ‘eye-fucking’?” he asks Arthur. Arthur laughs softly, kissing Merlin’s nose. 

“Do you know what ‘sex’ is?” Merlin’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Isn’t that how babies are made?” he asks. Arthur nods. 

“Right. So ‘fucking’ is the same as ‘sex’. Non-magic humans are just a bit more … um … outspoken about it, I guess.” 

“So … Leon thought we were making babies with our _eyes_?” Merlin asks, looking utterly perplexed. Arthur snorts, nuzzling Merlin’s ear. 

“People don’t do it just for _that_ ,” he explains quietly. “Do you remember Morgana and Daegal kissing under the tree at Easter?” Merlin nods, wrinkling his nose a little.

“In my world, Leon would say that they were ‘horny’. It’s kind of … wanting to be close to someone else, because you like them. People start with kissing and then with sex. Eye-sex is just … showing someone you want those things with them.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Merlin says, face clearing. “So he wants to be horny, like us, but he’s single?” Arthur is bright red by this point, but he nods as he laughs. 

“I guess so, kind of.”

“I suppose we do have a lot of eye-sex,” Merlin reasons. “I always want to be close to you. I didn’t mean to make him jealous.” Arthur buries his head in a pillow and groans, rolling onto his belly to push his hardening cock into the mattress. 

“Go to sleep Merlin,” Arthur begs, pulling Merlin close to him and wrapping an arm around his waist. Merlin wriggles against him comfortably, pressing a series of soft kisses up his neck and across the back of his shoulders.

“Night Arthur,” he whispers happily, snuggling into his body until there isn’t an inch between them.

 


End file.
